The Crystal Cage Read online

  ‘Jasmine,’ Mrs Gardiner said complacently. ‘The scent was as popular in Victorian times as it is today.’

  ‘The necklace dates from then?’

  ‘Almost certainly. I found it in a paper bag, would you believe, wrapped tightly in that piece of material. Then I rooted around for a box to put it in. I thought I should. I am right, my dear, it is valuable?’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Mrs Gardiner, so guard it well. But the papers…’

  ‘There, I’d quite forgotten. Give me a minute and I’ll get you exactly what you want.’ She trotted towards the staircase and we soon heard her footsteps creaking overhead. Neither of us really believed that she would produce anything significant, but a few minutes later she was staggering into the sitting room with a pile of large manilla envelopes, spilling their contents at random.

  ‘Here we are. Enough papers for you?’ she asked triumphantly.

  We started searching while she busied herself in the kitchen, determined that we wouldn’t leave before we’d taken some Dorset sustenance. The contents of the envelopes consisted in the main of old letters and postcards, primarily from the later part of the nineteenth century and sent by family members to each other. Again there was no evident connection to Lucas Royde. A few recipes popped up here and there, interesting enough to make a non-cook stop and read, until I felt Nick’s reproving eye on me. I plodded on—more letters, notices of village events, a few keepsakes, dried flowers, ribbons, small badges and a few tattered theatre posters at the bottom of the pile. I picked them up out of curiosity since I wondered what kind of theatre Dorchester would have boasted at the time. But they turned out to be posters from London, and I felt that old familiar stir of excitement. I waved one at Nick, but he didn’t spark.

  I decided to make him. ‘These must have belonged to Royde himself. I can’t imagine any other of the family visiting a London theatre.’

  My excitement slid off him. ‘Another dead end,’ he opined.

  ‘I guess so…’ My voice trailed off while I looked at the most tattered one. It was an Adelphi Theatre poster and advertised a play called The School for Tigers, which had been produced at the theatre in the March of 1851. The date was bang-on.

  ‘March 1851.’ I waved the poster at him again, and my voice was a little croaky.

  ‘Interesting, but where does it get us?’

  I turned the poster over and stared fixedly, trying to decipher the old-fashioned writing, and hardly believing what I was seeing.

  Nick looked curiously at me. ‘Your eyes are like headlamps.’

  ‘You bet! There’s a note on the back. A scrawled note—he seems to have written in haste.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It reads,’ and I took a breath, ‘it reads, “Meet A, Onslow Street.”‘

  I jumped to my feet and launched myself at him, hugging him so tightly that he was in serious danger of suffocating. ‘Onslow Street, Nick. There were offices in that road belonging to a silk importer, an Edward Renville, who paid for a display space in the Exhibition Hall of the Crystal Palace. We’ve got our connection at last!’

  ‘That’s great.’ He didn’t sound as enthralled as I thought he should be. Instead his face was furrowed by small worry lines. ‘But who is A?’

  I refused to be daunted. ‘Who indeed?’

  Chapter Eight

  London, March 1851.

  Lucas Royde stood on the threshold of 5 Onslow Street and adjusted his cravat. This was not what he’d been hoping for, even dreaming of. For the last few weeks he had pictured himself returning to Wisteria Lodge and meeting Alessia alone, taking tea with her once more in the beautiful room overlooking the garden, talking together, perhaps even exchanging confidences. But the message from Edward Renville had been unequivocal: he understood that designs for the Renville pavilion were now complete and he wished to see them as soon as possible.

  Delighted that an unsatisfactory commission was nearing its close, Daniel de Vere had graciously indicated that Lucas might take a few hours from the office to attend on Mr Renville at his place of business. He had hurried Lucas from Great Russell Street, allowing him only to gather final drawings before bundling him unceremoniously into a passing hansom. DV, it seemed, had plans for his talented young recruit and was anxious to wash his hands of a difficult and none too lucrative client. The new commission, Lucas gathered, involved yet one more ancient church ripe for Gothic renewal. It would extend his professional expertise, but he felt little enthusiasm for the task. He wanted no other commission, least of all one that led to the vandalism he detested. He wished to stay just where he was; he wanted to anchor himself to the ground, literally dig his heels in, and refuse to move. He was willing to design the Renville space over and over again, anything that would keep him close to Alessia. He hoped against hope that she would be waiting for him behind the front door of number five.

  A grey-haired clerk, his trousers shiny from long wear, opened the door and bowed Lucas in. He had imagined the Renville offices as dark, sombre, overpowering like the man who owned them. Overpowering they were, but it was the sheer opulence of their furnishings that came as a shock. Wisteria Lodge, though a substantial dwelling, was modest in appearance. But here Edward Renville had poured every particle of pride into the sumptuous velvet hanging at the window, the carpet so thick it felt like air to walk upon and the many valuable antique pieces scattered lavishly around a room designed to receive and impress visitors. The clerk did some more bowing and Lucas found himself in the great man’s office. It was similarly furnished, and he was waved into an expensive chair of black Jacobean oak. There was no sign of Alessia and his mood plummeted. Edward Renville accorded him only the smallest of bows before he retreated with the designs to a desk so imposing that it stretched almost from one wall to another. There was silence while Lucas awaited his sponsor’s judgment. A solid gold Georgian timepiece ticked loudly in the background while Renville shuffled papers back and forth, studying one sheet at a time, but giving no indication of his thoughts. A very small hope sprang up in Lucas that the man was dissatisfied with the plans, not sufficiently to cancel the whole project but just enough to necessitate his return to Prospect Place for another consultation with the woman whose image had for weeks filled his every waking moment. After what seemed an age, and which Lucas later calculated to be at least fifteen silent minutes, Edward Renville sniffed loudly.

  ‘It will do.’

  The grudging acceptance irked Lucas and prompted him to return to the same question he’d asked days ago, knowing it would irritate.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly where in the Exhibition Hall the Renville display will sit?’ He deliberately omitted the customary ‘sir.’

  Edward Renville’s face duly registered annoyance. He had already made it clear that such trivial matters were not his concern.

  ‘Upstairs.’ The answer was as grudging as his acceptance of the plans, but at least Lucas had forced him to answer. A small victory in a war that only Renville could win.

  But then something miraculous happened. ‘You will need to see the location before these plans are realised. You may need to make adjustments to take account of the venue. Take Mrs Renville with you. It must be perfect.’

  How could it not be, thought Lucas, with perfection overseeing the project? His heart was hammering so loudly that he was sure Renville must hear it. He took a deep breath and tried to recover his poise.

  Leaning forward on the uncomfortable wooden chair, he said with the first genuine enthusiasm he had felt that afternoon, ‘It would be helpful to view the materials you have in mind for the display.’

  ‘I have nothing particular in mind. All Renville materials are of the highest quality. It matters not which you choose—each will prove an excellent ambassador.’

  When he spoke of his business, Edward Renville’s pomposity excelled itself; the company appeared to be his whole life. What about Alessia, Lucas thought savagely, how does she fit into this narrow little world? And her daughters
? What did their father think of them, the fact that his only children were girls? The youngest, Georgina, must be at least six years old and further additions to the family looked unlikely. But producing a male heir would be paramount since Renville and Daughter was unimaginable.

  Edward Renville got up and moved in a stately fashion to the door. ‘Follow me, Mr Reed.’

  ‘Royde.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  He led Lucas along a richly panelled hallway and through a door at the back of the building. Outside, they followed a paved pathway towards a vast structure of galvanised iron. There was far more space behind the house than Lucas had imagined. It seemed that Renville had bought up the gardens of his neighbours to the left and to the right of number five and erected one of the ugliest warehouses he had ever seen. The contrast with the overblown luxury they had just left was comic.

  Renville threw open the door and Lucas was looking at mile after mile of racking, filled to overflowing with bolts of every kind and colour of material. Silks, gauzes, satins, taffetas and tulles blazed forth, their dazzling radiance disconnecting them from the drab space in which they sat, as though the markets of southern Europe and the bazaars of the East had taken flight together and by mistake had come to rest in an alien land. They shared no bond with the glaring light of gas above or the rough ground beneath but shimmered intangibly in a sphere of their own. Even their smell marked difference. Warm spice and tangy citrus wafted by Lucas as he passed along their rows. He felt immediately at home, and unthinking, was encouraged to speak.

  ‘We had in mind a primary scheme of pinks, lilacs, perhaps a darker fuchsia on occasion.’

  Renville sniffed. It seemed to be his chosen mode of communication for those with whom he had no wish to communicate.

  ‘You might prefer a bolder scheme—scarlets, deep purples, indigos?’ Lucas hazarded.

  The thin, clipped tones of his host put him right. ‘I have no interest in colour, Mr Reed. That is your province. Choose what you wish. Dearlove will assist you.’

  A small, bald-headed man had appeared from the shadows. He was dressed in light brown overalls and wielded an enormous pair of scissors. While Lucas was nodding a greeting, Renville abruptly turned tail and without a word, disappeared back to his empire. Mr Dearlove looked meekly at Lucas and waggled his scissors in preparation.

  Lucas took another long walk around the racks. They presented a bewildering array of possibilities but keeping Alessia’s beautiful face firmly in sight, he decided on the choices she would make. He managed eventually to whittle his requirements down to five silks and three gauzes, and Mr Dearlove set to work with a will, expertly slicing numerous lengths from each of the bolts indicated. Then he trussed them in brown paper and string and handed them over, all without speaking a word. Lucas made his way back through the heavy luxury of the main building and out of the front door. The materials were proving surprisingly heavy, and he felt it a great good fortune that the hansom was still waiting. And de Vere’s were paying.

  ‘Great Russell Street?’ the jarvey asked.

  ‘Yes—no.’ An idea had sprung unbidden into his mind. Why not? He had the materials; he had the cab.

  ‘Prospect Place,’ he commanded.

  There was little traffic on the roads, and he was there in a matter of minutes. The hansom drove away, leaving him by the roadside, the brown paper parcel at his feet. Nothing stirred and once the cab had turned the corner, the road returned to silence. Bathed in the weak sun of early spring, the house gave all the appearance of being abandoned. He should not have come. It was a foolish idea, but he had so desperately wanted to see her, to rescue something of the day, something of the dream. He grasped the brass lion head and knocked loudly but without much hope of being heard.

  A maid answered almost straight away, not the disapproving Martha but a younger girl, pert and black-eyed. A merry girl who smiled expectantly at him and said, yes, her mistress was in but not in the house.

  ‘In her studio,’ she explained.

  He remembered Edward Renville speaking of his wife as a painter, remembered, too, the scathing thoughts he had had at the time. He felt a little ashamed, yet even now found it difficult to take seriously the idea of Alessia as a dedicated artist. He was a professional, she was an amateur, and there was a chasm between them. But a studio sounded serious enough and he was intrigued.

  ‘Where is this studio?’

  ‘In the garden, sir. You can’t see it from the house,’ the maid added helpfully. ‘It’s tucked away in a corner past the shrubbery.’

  He followed her to the rear of the house and into the beautiful room where several long weeks ago he had sat talking the minutes away with Alessia.

  ‘Through there, sir, and turn right.’ She indicated the long french windows.

  He walked through the double doors that gave on to the garden and turned right through a small shrubbery. He could see now that the garden was an L shape and the studio, a wooden building painted green to blend with its setting, sat at the foot of the letter. In fact the building was constructed as much of glass as of wood, one whole wall facing him being entirely made of huge glass panes and the roof above sporting not one but three skylights. The studio would catch the sun most of the day and the light would change from morning to afternoon to evening. It was a clever choice and Lucas was glad for her. He had the sense that she had little she could call her own.

  He rounded the last cluster of shrubs and saw her immediately. She was dressed in a spattered smock and seated at an easel, leaning forward into her painting, her brow furrowed, her whole body tensed in concentration. The energy, the containment, reminded him strongly of his own attempts to tame imagination onto paper.

  His footsteps crunched across the grass, still frosty from the cold of the night, and she looked up at the sound. Her expression registered surprise but then a smile dawned, illuminating her face, lighting her whole body, breaking through the glass wall and sweeping towards him in a ball of warm pleasure. She opened the door and held out her arms but only to help him with the samples of material that had begun to slide from his grasp.

  ‘I had no idea you had a studio, Mrs Renville.’

  ‘As you see, Mr Royde. It is my one indulgence.’

  ‘Why so? You are evidently hard at work—and I have interrupted you.’

  ‘I cannot claim to “work.” I daub, I fear.’ Her dark hair was loose and curling to her shoulders, stray tendrils framing her lovely face. He felt an overpowering need to reach out and touch, but instead he looked away from her and towards her picture.

  ‘May I see?’

  He moved a little closer to the easel. Her face showed plainly that she was embarrassed at his scrutiny, but she did nothing to prevent him.

  ‘It is of Lombardy,’ she explained unnecessarily. ‘From memory.’

  ‘It is good, really good.’ And his voice expressed conviction. He had been worried that it would be an amateur botch, but the painting of a piazza in Verona, its pigeons scattering in the wake of a delivery boy’s bicycle, was true, more than true—haunting in its remembered love. ‘Are you professionally trained?’

  Her smile was one of reminiscence. ‘For some years a painter stayed with us at my grandmother’s house, but nothing more. He was well thought of, I believe. As a child I found him a genius. He encouraged me to paint—he helped me greatly.’

  Lucas felt a sharp sting. ‘Is he still in Verona? Do you correspond?’

  ‘Alas, no. He died a few years before my grandmother.’

  The surge of jealousy died as quickly as it had appeared.

  ‘And do you paint every day?’ He looked around the room. A number of canvases were stacked against its rear wall, but there was little evidence of constant endeavour.

  ‘I paint when I can,’ she said simply.

  ‘When your daughters are not at home,’ he suggested.

  ‘When Edward does not need me.’

  The jealousy was in danger of return. ‘I have j
ust visited Onslow Street,’ he said almost casually. ‘Your husband wished to see the final designs. I had thought you would be there. We had an appointment to meet.’

  She brushed his reminder aside. ‘And does Mr Renville approve the plans?’

  ‘I believe so, though his actual words did not suggest strong endorsement.’

  ‘My husband is not the most effusive of men,’ she conceded, ‘but he would have told you if he had not liked what he saw.’

  ‘I hope so. He certainly considered them well. At one point I began to wonder if he wished to go ahead with the Exhibition space.’

  ‘I am sure he does. He is very proud of his business and wants others to share his pride.’

  Her championship caused him a swirling irritation. ‘That is hardly to be wondered at,’ he agreed duplicitously. ‘He has built a most successful business.’

  ‘And from virtually nothing, Mr Royde. When his father died, Edward and his mother were left almost penniless.’

  ‘Even more admirable,’ he heard himself enthusing. ‘It takes talent as well as capital to achieve such success.’

  And he wondered just where Renville had found what must have been a considerable sum of money on which to base that success. He had his suspicions but dared not pursue the subject. Instead he began to open the package of materials.

  ‘I should be glad of your opinion, Mrs Renville, on my initial choice of colours.’

  She took time to examine each sample, taking them one by one to bright daylight and then moving back to the furthest recesses of the room where a paraffin lamp burned dimly.

  ‘They are completely right,’ she pronounced. ‘You have chosen well.’

  ‘Would they have been your choice, too?’ His voice had softened and the simple question assumed a strange intimacy.